Before the Shatterpoint
by Eirian Erisdar
Summary: The moments before shatterpoints are always nearly as important as the shatterpoints themselves. Obi-Wan on Utapau, one bright minute before Order 66; Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan, the day before the mission to Naboo; Luke watching the Tatooine sunset, not knowing it is his last. Moments before pivotal points in galactic history, in brief snapshots.
1. Obi-Wan, sixty seconds before Order 66

**a/n: Hey, there! This is the first part of a new series of oneshots that are based around moments before pivotal events in the galaxy - the moment before Order 66; the day before Naboo; one last binary sunset on Tatooine, and so on. The moment before the shatterpoint is often as important as the shatterpoint itself.**

 **This was originally posted on my tumblr at** _eirianerisdar tumblr com_ **(replace spaces with dots) but I thought I'd make a series of it, since there's _so_ much opportunity for angst.**

 **For my regular readers, an update: I'll post the second chapter very quickly after this, get on with finishing the next chapter of _Silent Measures_ , and then get cracking on _The Silent Song._**

* * *

 _Before the Shatterpoint_

 _Eirian Erisdar_

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 _Chapter 1: Obi-Wan, sixty seconds before Order 66_

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Grievous is dead.

Technically, Obi-Wan knows he should not feel pleasure at the death of another sentient, even one as vile as General Grievous; but this victory is one too hard-won and long-awaited for him to feel anything other than relief.

Dooku is gone, and now Grievous, too. The twin heads of the Separatists have been unseated, and the end of this war is now finally in sight.

Oh, to no longer be a _General_ \- to be a Master and teacher first and foremost, to take another padawan (well, that one perhaps later, after a well-deserved period of rest) and to pass on Qui-Gon's teachings to the next generation of Jedi, a generation who will rise in a tranquil new era of peace…

Boga's shrill war-cry as the varactyl hurls herself back into the battle proper breaks Obi-Wan out of his stupor. He tugs at the reins and weaves them across the chaos, aiding his men wherever he can, though the lack of a lightsaber does not help things in the slightest.

Ah. There, Cody. With a very familiar-looking cylinder hanging from his belt.

Obi-Wan smiles. Always there, his indispensable second.

The clones will need relocating after the war, naturally - and here Obi-Wan pauses to thank Cody for his lightsaber - but where to? The Senate will cry for their decommissioning, of course, but that will not happen. Not if Obi-Wan has anything so say about it.

He makes a note to speak to Ahsoka as soon as he has the opportunity to put a comm-call through to the siege of Mandalore. She will have ideas to share, no doubt, and with some nifty negotiating the Senate might at least let her keep her share of the 501st, with Rex under her direct command as he is presently.

As Boga begins to climb the circular cliff walls in stomach-churning jumps, Obi-Wan spares a thought between activating his lightsaber and planning his next course of action to think about what to say to Anakin about Grievous.

It wouldn't do at all to tell Anakin about the blaster. Obi-Wan wouldn't hear the end of it for weeks. It will take some clever wording, once he has returned with news of peace for their galaxy, at last-

Boga screams.

Obi-Wan feels the cannon shot flare in the Force as plasma melts the rock in front of them, a bare metre away; a second after the shock of this comes an acute sense of empty loss, like a parent whose children have rejected him.

For the first time in almost four years, the minds of his men are closed to him.

Boga shields him from the flames, and perishes even as she slips off the cliffside. He is alone.

He falls.

And as he hits the water, he thinks, Anakin-

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 ** _Next up:_** _Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan, one day before the mission to Naboo_

 **Leave a review if you like! These are all snapshots so I'll be done with the next in a jiffy.**


	2. Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon, one day before Naboo

**a/n: As promised, chapter 2 is a very quick update. This is almost a double-post.**

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 _Chapter 2: Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon, one day before their mission to Naboo_

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Coruscant Prime slips its bright disc below the city-planet's jagged horizon.

Obi-Wan Kenobi brushes his shower-damp braid back over his ear, and continues his upward trek. Bars of golden light lance through the westward windows and set his hair into red-gold flame.

The turbolift is hushed and quiet as it climbs up towards the darkening sky.

He does not know what has caused his master to ascend the Tranquility Spire at this hour, but when Obi-Wan had emerged from his afternoon solo 'saber training session, he had sensed his Master there, at the peak of the Temple's tallest spire.

And so he does what a padawan should; seek out his master, for wisdom and guidance.

Obi-Wan's braid brushes by his waist as steps out of the turbolift, hushing his steps on etched marble; beyond this circular chamber is another, one of meditative peace.

The doors slide open soundlessly at his touch, and there, framed by the warm flames of the Coruscanti sunset, stands Qui-Gon Jinn.

Qui-Gon does not turn around, but the Force warms in recognition.

Obi-Wan steps up next to his master, and for a time, they watch Coruscant Prime slip away beneath towers of durasteel.

"We have a mission in the morning," Qui-Gon says, quietly.

Obi-Wan glances at him. "Where?"

"Naboo. There seems to be some unrest with the Trade Federation there." The fading light drenches Qui-Gon's leonine features in peculiar shadows; he has not yet turned towards his padawan.

They watch the sunset for a little while longer.

"You seem rather more contemplative than usual, Master." This, of course, is both a query and a jest.

Qui-Gon's lips twitch. "Don't deny an old man his sunsets."

A pause. Then: "Obi-Wan."

"Yes, Master?"

"You know I do not feel the Unifying Force as you do."

"Master Qui-Gon?"

The last of the light slips over the horizon; the chamber dims, and cools.

Qui-Gon makes a sound. It is almost a sigh. "I have one of those things you are so fond of announcing. I have…a feeling. About this mission."

"A _bad_ feeling?" Obi-Wan enquiries, half in jest yet again. His dimples are already partially visible.

"A feeling. Neither good or bad." Qui-Gon folds his hands into his sleeves. "Perhaps the Force wishes to tell us this mission will be important."

"I suppose it might," Obi-Wan says contemplatively. "But I will do my best, as you have taught me, and you will do yours, and the Force will be enough."

Qui-Gon glances at his apprentice, almost startled.

Obi-Wan blinks back at him, more startled at his master's startlement than anything else.

The Force hiccups slightly…with…emotion?

Qui-Gon's expression is unreadable. "Obi-Wan, there are times when I would call you wise." There is an odd note in his voice, of words that he will not say.

Obi-Wan's eyes widen for a moment, then fill with understanding and mischief. "Often?" he teases.

"Don't push it."

Obi-Wan's chuckles echo in the curved room.

"I think it is almost time," Qui-Gon murmurs as he turns back to the window. His eyes trace the reflection of his apprentice's padawan braid in the transparisteel; the long record of their journey together, swinging at Obi-Wan's waist. It will break his heart, in a way, to cut it, and send the child he raised into Knighthood. But it is long overdue; Obi-Wan has the talent of three Knights combined, and has long been old and wise enough.

"Almost time for what?" Obi-Wan asks.

Qui-Gon waves the question away. "You will know in a short while longer, padawan."

"Hmm. Focus on the present, you must."

Qui-Gon reaches out and swats his apprentice gently about the head. "Poking fun at Master Yoda _and_ myself in one stroke is treading _very_ close to the line, my young padawan."

"We come to serve."

"Don't make fun of the Code."

"Pot…kettle…"

Qui-Gon pauses, mid-step. "I walked right into that one," he says, with some chagrin.

Obi-Wan's stomach gurgles loudly.

Master and padawan stare at each other for a moment, and then collapse into – _very dignified, thank you_ – laughter.

"Food," Qui-Gon says, clearly.

"And then tea?"

"Yes. And then we are getting a good night's rest. We start early tomorrow."

"Yes, Master."

Master and padawan pass through the doorway, and the circular chamber cools with the darkening sky.

* * *

 **Next chapter:** _Luke, last sunset on Tatooine_

 **Interesting points to note - that particular circular chamber is used as the Council chamber around the time of the Clone Wars. Previously, it was a meditation room. Reviews are appreciated! 3**


	3. Luke, his last binary sunset, ANH

**A/N: Enjoy. I've posted a new chapter of _The Silent Song_ and a couple chapters of _Silent Measures_ too, so do go have a look at those!**

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 _Chapter 3: Luke, his last binary sunset, ANH_

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There are many legends regarding the twin suns of Tatooine.

Some say they are brothers, chasing each other across the white sky, even as their blinding light bleaches the colour not only out of the sky itself but also the bones and faces of Tatooine. Others whisper that they are husband and wife, forever dancing but never reaching each other, and when one of them slips over the edge of the horizon into death, the other follows, out of agony at their parting.

And there are those who dismiss these stories as pointless, at the end of a long day's hard work, when the red-white disks of the setting suns throw double shadows behind each object, like forked tongues of darkness slithering out of the oncoming night.

Luke Skywalker, storming out of the homestead entrance, thinks of naught but _time_.

Time.

Year after agonizing year, on a sweltering planet with seas of sand, and ice-fired stars so close yet so out of reach.

Luke raises his head to the setting suns and allows their crimson-pale glow wash over him, lining his golden hair with sanguine streaks. Tatooine has that effect; rubbing the most precious of things raw and chafing at the smoothest of stones. Nineteen years he has breathed sand and thought water, and lived as well as one could, on a planet such as this. By those standards another year should be nothing more than a trifle.

But Tatooine is a living forge, and Luke feels as though cannot bear its fires much longer.

A new wind rises out of the west, and runs cool fingers through his hair, like a star-breathed gale that has traveled across the light-years and tumbled into a gentle breeze simply to caress his face. It brings with it a current of light, timeless, flameless, pure. It is at times like these that Luke wonders if the breath of the planet under his feet is his imagination, and whether the light of the fading suns shines brighter for him than any other soul.

Uncle Owen would certainly say that there is nothing good about the sunset, except that it brings the bone-numbing chill of night. But Uncle Owen would also most likely say the same thing about the sunrise, complaining instead about the burning of the flame-fed forge of the shifting sands.

Luke does not know which he prefers.

Caught in a never-ending cycle of searing fire by day and stinging frost at night, it is little wonder that he wishes for the stars, and their limitless possibilities.

Luke remains there, unmoving, with the suns at his face and the chill of night at his back, until the first sun dips below the horizon. Its disappearance counters the disparity, allows the temperature to smoothen into a balance.

And here is that one perfect moment of every day, when he is neither burning nor shivering, but pleasantly cool.

Luke has often wondered if this is what leaping into a pool of clean water would feel like; beautiful, crystalline, and all-surrounding, as though the world were light and he a part of it.

And then the second sun is snuffed out beyond the rim of the world, and he grows cold.

The shifting sands whisper, and breathe out a frosty sigh.

After a moment, Luke turns and heads back inside. There is no point in remaining further; he has another year of these twin sunsets, at least, before he can even think about stepping off Tatooine.

Tomorrow he will wake early, as usual, and eat the breakfast that Aunt Beru prepares for him; those same, unchanging foods since he was swaddled in cloths and just old enough to chew solids – and Uncle Owen will grunt and mumble inanities, but give Luke the best portion of water anyway.

And Luke will yearn, and yearn, and in all likelihood keep yearning for freedom for the rest of his life, but Tatooine will not give him up so easily.

He knows it, with a certainty that sinks into his bones.

Tatooine is in his blood.

Of course, it is not until much, much later that Luke realises just how true that is.

* * *

 **Next Chapter:** _Vader, Bespin, awaiting Luke's arrival_


	4. Vader, Bespin, awaiting Luke's arrival

**A/n: I'll be writing a new TSS chapter after this! Also, if you haven't looked at my tumblr** (eirianerisdar tumblr com) **check it out for more stories!** **  
**

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 _Chapter 4: Vader, Bespin, awaiting Luke's arrival  
_

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The carbon-freezing chamber is drenched in lightless ink.

And there, stood in the shadows above the steps, the Sith that used to be Anakin Skywalker waits for his son.

The boy is coming, drawn towards him by an inexplicable tide of – fate? Destiny?

Like a lamp moving towards ever-thickening darkness.

A part of him – coldly logical despite the anticipation that causes the borders between his living flesh and mechanical limbs to flare in agony – knows that he cannot possibly say this boy is his son, if he has renounced what is left of Anakin Skywalker.

Vader holds on to this illogicality like a drowning man.

Twenty-two years he has been trapped in this living coffin of obsidian armour, with vision forever tinged sanguine by bulbous lenses and breath a never-ceasing, never-changing sawing of a respirator's scream. The Force is both stronger and weaker than it has ever been, a paradox of unbearable proportions.

But with his son by his side…

It is possible.

Possible to overthrow the Emperor.

He feels a savage curl of pleasure at the idea, one that tears at a heart he thought long-dead, causing it pain.

A good pain.

Perhaps it is the fanciful longings of a man perpetually drowning in his own blood – his lung tissue, or what little remains of it, has been suspended in its own death-liquid for the last two decades – but Vader takes it in his armourweave-gloved hands, turning it over and over like the first clear hologram of his son that he had acquired, from the moment that bounty hunter, Fett, had spoken the word _Skywalker_ –

A memory.

Padme, lounging back on one of the silk-lined sofa-covers at their apartment at 500 Republica, the swell of her dress-covered belly already so huge that she had complained of not being able to see her ankles, crossed on the low table before her.

He had walked in, after a long and stressful Council meeting that had torn at his loyalties and scraped his control down to its utter dregs, and just…stood there. For a moment. Watching. Smiling.

He remembers what he felt, at that moment – utter contentment, brushing away the vestiges of anger–

Anger.

Vader takes the memory and crushes it in a grasp so tight that he feels the mental echo down to his mechanical fingertips, an ache that should not exist but flaunts his weaknesses in his face like the cackling darkness, the mocking light, the screams of ten thousand Jedi traitors, turning him into nothing but this shell of servitude, unable to taste, feel, smell, hear as the meanest of the Empire's servants can–

 _I am a person, and my name is–_

–Vader.

Not anything else.

Skywalker is the boy's name.

His, no longer.

But the subject of his thoughts is so very close, now; a supernova of light so bright that it is almost painful to look at through the Force.

And then there is a hiss of hydraulics, and the boy is _there_ , stood warily on a rising platform in the centre of the chamber. There is a blaster in his hand. Useless. Unnecessary.

Despite the danger to his overall health, Vader overrides his functions with a subtle flick of the Force; just enough to hold his breath for a few moments. He watches his son in the red-tinted gloom; those wretched rebel fatigues, hair grown overlong, shoulders set with foolhardy determination.

It is a moment of indulgence, this.

A moment too much.

He clenches a fist, and waves the industrial strip-lights into what he knows to be a sickly orange glow and begins to speak, the sawing of his breath scraping over his ragged tongue.

" _The Force is with you, young Skywalker – but you are not a Jedi yet."_

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 **Next up:** Obi-Wan, bringing baby Luke to Tatooine


	5. Obi-Wan, bringing Luke to Tatooine

**A/N: I've been very busy since the new academic year started in early July, but I found time to write this tonight :)**

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 _Chapter 5: Obi-Wan bringing Luke to Tatooine_

* * *

Obi-Wan likes to think that he and Luke have established a nice sort of rapport, during the cramped week they have spent hitching rides from spaceport to spaceport, working their way ever-farther from the centre of the galaxy, and closer to Tatooine.

Now, balanced gently on the swaying back of a bartered eopie – on what is hopefully the last leg of their journey – Obi-Wan keeps one hand on the reins and the other tucked under a tiny head as he watches Luke sleep.

It would seem that Luke has learnt to be comfortable around him in no time at all.

 _Obi-Wan_ has certainly learnt many things – that the smallest snuffle from that tiny pink mouth means _I'm hungry_ , and that wriggling might mean _I'm hungry again_ or _service my nappy please_ – and a hundred other small details that Obi-Wan lives and breathes and thinks, now, even in their last hour together.

Oh, and Luke's _smiles._

Obi-Wan had nearly forgotten to breathe, on only their second day travelling together and somewhere around the Colonies, when Luke looked up at him and smiled.

No teeth.

Just a little pink bow, curving into happiness. The purest and brightest kind.

A hundred details, indeed.

A hundred details that would turn into a thousand – favoured foods and little accidents, the redness of a tiny nose in tears, or the bright sparkle of blue-bright eyes in laughter – a laugh like his father's, perhaps, or a smile of gentle compassion like his mother's – favourite spots to play, hobbies and words and wobbly first steps.

A thousand moments and memories that would be treasured forever in the eyes of those that notice them, welcomed along with the challenges they bring.

It is not unlike raising a padawan.

That ache – familiar now, after only a week – stretches a heart already strained beyond endurance, welling up over a wound edged with black sand.

Oh, Anakin would have loved to be a father.

The chill of the oncoming night begins to creep closer, through the golden crimson of the binary sunset that lances light towards them. Obi-Wan tucks the slumbering baby closer to the warmth of his tunics, and raises his head to peer at the shimmering heat-haze.

The spire of a water vaporator climbs over the horizon first – then a little domed building, with two figures beside it, waiting.

A fitting word, homestead.

Obi-Wan curls over the bundle that is tucked into his chest, inside the russet circle of his cloak. "This is your aunt and uncle, Luke," he whispers into the wisps of golden hair. "They will love you dearly–"

His breath hitches.

 _As I did my brother._

The homestead is so very close now. Owen Lars is a figure on the low ridge beyond the entrance, looking into the fiery sunset; Beru is waiting, eyes sparkling with expectation.

Obi-Wan runs a thumb over Luke's cheek, and fights the urge to pull the eopie to a slower pace.

And then it is time.

The Force sings softly as he halts the eopie.

He bends over Luke protectively as he slides towards the ground, both arms full of this warm, precious weight.

"May the Force be with you, Luke Skywalker," he murmurs, one last time, for those slumbering ears alone.

And then a few quick paces – the Force seeming to tumble and flicker like a newborn flame with each step across warm, hard-packed dirt – and then Luke is gone from his arms, and in a circle of homespun cloth instead, secure, and loved.

Beru turns, Luke in her arms, and joins her husband on the ridge.

The binary sunset turns the new family into a kaleidoscope of sun-bleached sand and gold-painted sky, a forge of new possibilities.

Obi-Wan watches for a moment, arms crossed over his tabards, one hand reaching up to touch his beard – oh, Luke's warmth still clinging to his sleeves – and hears rather than feels the Force stir beneath his feet and erupt into the heavens in a new song.

A new _hope._

And as for Obi-Wan?

The Force guides him back to the eopie, takes his hand and runs it over the animal's head in an affectionate pat, and sets the eopie's three-toed feet towards the Jundland Wastes.

And the Force, as always, sings with the binary sunset.

* * *

 **Next chapter:** Bail, Breha, Alderaan's last moment

I've been writing snippets and things on tumblr, too, so have a look at that if you like! 3 I'll get a chapter of _The Silent Song_ or _Silent Measures_ out next, I think. :)


	6. Dooku, Qui-Gon's death

**A/N: Finally finished my paediatrics rotation. Thought I'd drop this here as a warm-up to get back to writing again. I know I said the next chapter would be Bail and Breha before Alderaan's destruction, but From a Certain Point of View covered that in canon. So have some Dooku instead :)**

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 _Chapter 6: Dooku, Qui-Gon's death_

* * *

The news of Qui-Gon's death reaches the Temple just as Dooku returns from a self-imposed reconnaissance mission six grueling months long.

He had needed to see the state of the Republic for himself, _without_ the Council's directives.

He stands there for a moment, in his spotless, impeccably furnished quarters, with the reek of a decaying Republic clinging to his sentinel-shadowed cloak, and stares at the comm in his hand; as if challenging it to repeat the report it has just produced in a metallic-edged voice devoid of all but professional calm.

 _Masters and Knights of the Order: We regret to report that Master Qui-Gon Jinn has rejoined the Force. He fell in the line of duty, protecting the Queen of Naboo as he was charged to do in his service to the Republic. Master Jinn's body has been returned to the Living Force on Naboo; for those who wish to attend and pay their respects, a separate memorial service will be held in the Hall of Eternal Rest at the sixth hour postmeridian, three days from the date of this message. May the Force be with you._

Mace Windu had not even the decency to tell him in private.

And Dooku had considered him almost a friend.

It is not often that Dooku feels the weight of almost seven decades of existence, but he does now. He allows his travel-stained cloak to drop behind him, crosses to the table on boots caked with the dirt of a thousand dying worlds that the Republic chooses to turn a blind eye to. They track grime across the spotless floor, turns the shining surface into corrupted grey.

He lowers himself into a chair, and folds his hands in front of him.

He should have sensed it.

 _Why_ had he not sensed it?

The Force has been…distant, of late. The light not quite as bright as it had been in his youth, as though the crystal of his heart has dulled with the sights he has presented it with.

World after distant world, Hutt, Trandoshan, pirate, mercenary; a million specks of filth festering in the glittering façade of a Republic grown greedy and complacent, with an Order of cowards at its bidding. Dooku had watched from a dimly-lit tavern in the furthest reaches of Wild Space as the young Queen of Naboo addressed the senate on a holo-screen above him; watched as the politicians fingered their corruption-lined pockets and decided that her world was not worth saving.

The Council, of course, had done nothing. They had sent his former padawan on a fool's errand; and ultimately, his utter ending.

The chair opposite stares at him mockingly, as though the straight-backed slab of priceless Felucian wood laughs for the lack of a brown-haired padawan in it.

But that had been so very long ago; nearly four decades, now. Dooku had been a Knight fairly freshly knighted, and Qui-Gon not so much younger than him as to voice any differing opinions a young Jedi might have.

And Qui-Gon had _many_ differing opinions.

In the end, it had been…simpler, to step back. To allow Yoda to teach Qui-Gon that travesty of a lightsaber form, to know that no matter what Dooku taught, and said, Qui-Gon would always have a different perspective. And Qui-Gon, in turn, had learnt to pick and choose his battles. It had not been a particularly close partnership, by any means.

But Dooku had not thought their bond so weak that he could not sense the passing of his former padawan, even a hundred light-years away.

 _Padawans._

What of his grandpadawan?

What of Obi-Wan Kenobi?

Surely the boy is more a young man now; with scarcely a few months before knighthood, he would only need an experienced eye in the short term, to correct the many indulgences Qui-Gon no doubt lavished upon their partnership.

With this comes a ridiculous thought. Would Dooku presume too much, if he offered…?

His comm chirps; a different sound, now, to indicate a text-based message. He slides his fingers out of a clasp so tight that he is almost surprised by their numbness, and flicks open the display.

The short lines of aurebesh fill him first with shock.

Then anger.

And disgust.

It would seem Obi-Wan Kenobi is no longer a padawan.

Or a simple Knight, either.

If the Council thinks it wise to place a freshy-knighted, grieving young Jedi in charge of the training of a nine-year-old who had never heard of the Force until three weeks past, then who is Dooku, respected Jedi Sentinel and once a Council member himself, to oppose them?

It is enough.

The Jedi are the crystal of the Force, they say.

The anger flickers at the edges of his consciousness, slides questing fingers into the cracked crystal that is his heart. It pauses for a moment, slithers before him, as if waiting for his reply.

Dooku looks the shadow in the eye, appraisingly, and nods once.

The world sharpens like never before, and if the Force screams as he takes control of it, he relishes in the sound. Rage. Power. Determination. There is fury at his fingertips, lightning in his veins.

He palms the lightsaber at his belt, allows it to float before him, at eye level. The components make no sound as they separate themselves from ach other, skirting around the turbulent shadows that flicker from his fingers. In the centre of the disassembled weapon, his lightsaber crystal shines a bright gold, the same hue that he spotted far off in the dim caves of Ilum, as a padawan himself.

Dooku reaches forward and plucks the crystal from the hovering components with a long thumb and forefinger. It burns against his cold fingers, blazing with a light he no longer has.

Too long has he been a Shadow cast by the Light. It is time he willingly entered the darkness.

He drops the crystal in a flimsi envelope and uses the internal Temple comm to summon a messenger. When the junior padawan knocks at his door, Dooku hands him the envelope with a clipped, "For the attention of Master Yoda," and cares not that the padawan stares up at his yellow-tinged eyes with ill-disguised fear.

There is no need to send further words. The crystal is a message enough.

Dooku crosses back to the table, reassembles his lightsaber with a careless flick of his fingers, and retrieves a new outfit from his chamber; one he owns due to his birthright, but has never donned before now.

When he is robed in sable tunics bearing the coat of arms of the Count of Serenno, he crosses over to his study, slides open a drawer he has not touched for over thirty-five years, and withdraws a box painted in dust.

The lid clicks open at his touch.

The dark brown braid is still there, coiled around itself with the journey of a teacher and his student marked with every bead and twist. It was put in that box the day it was severed from a newly-knighted head, and there it has remained until this moment.

It is likely Qui-Gon thought he had done away with it.

Dooku closes the lid.

Strictly speaking, there is no purpose in bringing it with him. It could even be viewed as a weakness. More would be served by burning it and leaving the blackened beads on his meditation cushion for all who choose to see.

But he cannot bring himself to do so.

So he pockets it, and turns on a crisp, newly shined heel. The door hisses shut behind him with finality.

Dooku leaves the Temple not through its massive entryway, with its towering colonnades drenched in the gold of Coruscant Prime's sunset; he leaves instead through its Eastern hangar, with his silhouette thrown out before him by the artificial lights that illuminate the hangar floor. His personal fighter lifts into the cooling air, and it too chases its shadow until it is swallowed whole by the oncoming night.

When he reaches Serenno a day later, there will be a letter waiting for him at his estate, bearing a unique signature.

A stylized _S_ in old Basic, signed in crimson ink.

* * *

 **Next chapter: I haven't decided yet; any requests?**

 **I hope to get some TSS out next week! Thanks to everyone who has been leaving me such lovely reviews and favourites. Visit my tumblr at** eirianerisdar tumblr com **(replace spaces with dots) for more writing!  
**


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